


Heavenly

by jungleo



Category: K-pop, VIXX
Genre: ! implied death but not really, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by 천국의 우편배달부 (2009), M/M, POV Third Person, References to Depression, Romantic Friendship, Slow Burn, Spiritual, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-24 09:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungleo/pseuds/jungleo
Summary: Cha Hakyeon is heartbroken after his girlfriend passed away, and seeks desperately for a way to get into contact with her one last time. Bringing a hand-written letter to a legendary mailbox, said to be protected by the angels, he meets Jung Taekwoon and, soon after their fateful encounter, an extraordinary friendship blossoms. A companionship which turns out to be not as easy as Hakyeon expected when he finds out that Taekwoon, who he has come to depend on, is dead as well.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Bright blue skies; a soft breeze of wind playing with his hair and nothing more than healthy green grass as far as the eye could see. It was a nice day, so far. The one called Jung Taekwoon took slow steps towards his destination – a big, red and very old-fashioned mailbox in the middle of an open field. The sight of it always left Taekwoon feeling conflicted. The box resembling a bird house was a stark reminder of the freedom which the man had lost and yet gained at the same time. It spoke of lifetimes lost and a new one being led by the man who dutifully approached the box, red paint slightly peeling off the wooden surfaces. Why would a man like Jung Taekwoon journey to a seemingly abandoned mailbox? Simple. Taekwoon was a postman, but not just any postman. No, one of a special kind. One the majority of the Korean peoples wouldn't know existed. One only the deceased knew to exist; them _and their loved ones_ grieving their – often untimely – deaths.

This old, red mailbox was one of a special kind, too. It was not registered in any official records and wasn’t known by any other postman in the world, but Taekwoon. To him and the heavens above – the man’s employer. This mailbox contained many secrets, an abundance of tears wept, feather-light touches, bright laughter and – most importantly – it contained all-consuming love. Love in the form of heart-felt letters addressed to deceased loved ones. These letters protect all the words the living still wanted to tell the dead, but weren’t given the time or opportunity to do so. This mailbox was a treasure box, and Taekwoon was the treasure keeper. Jung Taekwoon, 27 years old, was a heaven's postman tasked with delivering to heaven written words that would never be spoken.

Taekwoon reached the mailbox in the middle of the clearing and removed the feathered necklace from around his neck, taking the key attached to it and opening the mailbox. The lid creaked a little as it was being pulled open. A fair number of letters greeted him, some tumbling out as the mailbox couldn’t hold on to the bulk any longer. Letters overflowing with love and grief tumbled to the grassy grounds, neat corners sinking into the mud. Pale, bony fingers reached out, fingertips gliding across the surface of the mailbox as Taekwoon took the letters out and stuffed them all into his large messenger bag. Bending down, Taekwoon carefully snatched those few letters which contents had been too heavy for the mailbox to hold and gently gathered them in both hands – smoothing out the paper surface – before those, too, were put into the black bag. Turning back to the crimson-coloured mailbox, Taekwoon closed the lid, turned the lock back into its place and slid out the key which then once again found itself wrapped around a delicate neck.

The postman paused. Dark, feline eyes slowly lifted until a head tilted back and the vision of a bright red mailbox was replaced with infinite blue as Jung Taekwoon, heaven’s postman, gazed up at the skies. Big, clear clouds shifted and the sun shone faintly, its rays piercing the greyish puffs of fluff and allowing the world see her smile. Taekwoon stared at the clouds again, shaping them and a small smile graced his full, cherry red lips. Maybe existing like this had not been such a terrible fate. Being a heaven’s postman had meant he was given a second chance. He was tasked with a heavenly duty until the end of days, or at least until his employer thought his task fulfilled. As Taekwoon contemplated time, he felt the weight of his duty currently resting against his right hip and exhaled a soft sigh. The wind picked up, the feathered necklace twisting and turning as strands of black, silken hair roughened the man's appearance.

No one knew about the postman’s existence and no one had to know. Embodied by many throughout the times, the image of the postman remained quiet in the shadows of grief, always waiting and filial to the heavens. Those still living would find the heavenly mailbox empty every day after 5pm, but no one ever questioned who took the letters and gifts. All they did and could do was to hope that their messages would be taken far past where they could wander and arrive at the unknown world, where they would be read as a final, desperate attempt to be heard. Letters to a world only the postman knew existed. A world only the mysterious postman could enter and exit.

Jung Taekwoon did not know his number, was not aware of his predecessors, but he knew that he was the current and only Heaven’s Postman, which he would always remain until his task was done. Turning his gaze away from the sky, Taekwoon sighed somewhat contently once more and glanced one last time at the red mailbox before lifting a combat-booted foot and making his way through the field at a leisurely pace, creating distance between himself and the red spot amidst the greens. As he walked back into the direction from whence he came, the clouds in the sky turned darker. Soon, all that was left of the postman’s presence were flatted leaves and the faint scent of sandalwood. The sun hid herself behind victorious clouds, from which heavy raindrops rained down onto earth and all her habitants.

And somewhere in the pouring rain, lost in the middle of nowhere, Cha Hakyeon realised he had made a mistake. It was foolish to buy the story of an old ramyeon-shop owner, who probably had more tales to tell than hair on his head. But the story had been the nicest to listen to, accompanied with a bowl of fine Korean noodles – a soothing thought to a depressed mind. “There’s this wee mailbox, far away from the peoples,” A gruff voice had spoken. “Letters put in there will be send ter Heaven, they will. Used ter send ‘em to me wife, yer see.” The man had spoken, and Hakyeon remembered it clearly. “Take bus 239 an’ get out once ye see the olde willow tree far ou'side the city. Then, 'tis only a mile ter the red box.” Hakyeon snorted at the memory. The old man was probably laughing with his even older friends, about this poor, young fellow who travelled for hours to give a letter to his dead girlfriend.

Cha Hakyeon stood there all by his lonesome, feeling somewhat lost and without a clue as to where to go. The rain kept pouring down, drenching his stylish Burberry, chequered coat soaking wet. Feeling chilled to the bone, the tanned male lifted a calloused hand to pull at the collar. The weather had been so nice when he’d arrived, the sun greeting him as he gazed upon her from the dirty bus window. It had almost seemed as if the heavens agreed with the soul-broken man intending to pay heaven’s mailbox a visit. The weather had turned the moment Hakyeon exited the bus and set foot on the gravel of a long winding country road, fields green to his right. It had turned Hakyeon’s mellow smile upside down, a sudden wave of despairing grief rushing through Hakyeon’s veins as brown eyes took in the sight of an orange- green horizon. The weather now seemed only capable of hiding his tears, as the rain kept washing them away. His letter got wet, too. The paper thin, flimsy and completely soaked just like the 27-year-old, who sank down into the wet grass - desperate, tired and depressed as he reigned in the violent sobs threatening to burst forth from chapped lips. If only he was close to a cliff, looking over the rough sea, Hakyeon would’ve jumped off to be with his girlfriend again. Such a dark thought never once plagued Cha Hakyeon’s mind before as he was a man of a sunny disposition, known to be kind and forthcoming. Yet, the tragedy that befell his loved one invited gloomy thoughts on any day.

Miyori was the prettiest, sweetest girl in the world – many would agree with the once-smitten Cha Hakyeon. She was half Japanese and always took care of others as much as she cared for herself. Miyori looked so fine, even without her face covered in layers of brightening foundation and pale-pink blush powder, as Korean society would have it. Hakyeon had been in love with her since their first year in secondary school, but it was only in senior year that he dared to confess, after years of gathering the courage to speak more than a simple greeting to the girl he once adored from afar. When Miyori returned his affections, the couple became inseparable all the way through college, where she studied law and Hakyeon devoted himself to photography. Completely different subjects, as they were completely different people, and yet they went together like sea and sand, in the way that whipped cream complemented hot chocolate.

Hakyeon had wanted to marry her. He was going to propose to the woman on her 26th birthday. The happy man had already bought the ring – a simple silver band with a small, traditional diamond.  It was standard, but it would have suited her so perfectly. She never turned 26. Tragedy came so unexpected, in a manner which you only see in grand movies but never expect to happen to you in real life. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A half a second and one shot was all it took for Miyori’s light to be snuffed and Hakyeon’s days to turn colder than they ever had been previously. They never caught the man, even though the culprit’s face is one Hakyeon saw so vividly in his nightmares of late.

The brown-haired male could no longer remember why he had made the trip. His letter was ruined, all his precious words written down disappearing. Yet, he couldn’t drop it. Perhaps the letter still held dear the memories and emotions attached to it, despite the ink that had leaked through paper, smudging the envelope in a blue messy blob. It clung to Miyori as Hakyeon did, clinging to the letter he was almost certain he could no longer post. Lifting his head, Hakyeon blinked through tears and rain, his vision blurry and his knees muddy. He had to find shelter. Getting up from his defeated position, Hakyeon stood on shaky legs and slowly started to head towards a nearby tree – an old willow. The harsh weather whipped at his slight frame, tousling his hair and stinging his tear-stricken skin. Exhausted, Hakyeon dropped against the tree’s sturdy bark. He was cold and tired, frozen fingers holding on to the letter which he now pressed against his chest. In the distance, a faint red mark stood out against the green.

Slowly, the man closed his eyes and tried to think of paradise. Warm weather, the sun on his face and radiant Miyori there with him – by his side always, as she should be. And somehow, Hakyeon hoped he could just pass away, right there and then. If he just stopped breathing, perhaps she would come to get him. Hakyeon envisioned his love, in her sunny dress with a purple sash as she urged him forward from the old willow tree into the unknown. Holding the thought of white beaches, pearl seas and palm trees as being paradise, with endless fields of flowers and the prettiest lady in the world, Hakyeon fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cha Hakyeon struggles through his grief, finds a friend in a cheerful barista and follows fate to the countryside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a burst of inspiration and rewrote the first chapter for this fic :) I'm pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoyed reading! Feel free to comment, subscribe or leave kudos, thank you. ♡  
> ➞ I changed my username on CuriousCat and you can now find me at @faerietaek.

**Chapter One**

The birds chirped and the rustle of leaves was faint behind the thick glass of Hakyeon’s bedroom window. It was opened slightly, allowing a soft gust of wind to play with the curtains before it tickled the young man’s ear. With a soft groan, Hakyeon turned. His nose buried deep within his soft pillow, Hakyeon refused to open his eyes. A hand came up to grasp the pillow while the other reached to tug the blankets more firmly around his frame. Hakyeon slept in foetal position, curled towards the middle of the bed. The toes of his right foot slipped just past where his single mattress touched that of Miyori’s on the right side of their queen-sized bed. It was still Miyori’s despite the bed not having been warmed by her body for a little over a year. The grieving man groaned again, this time more high-pitched before a choked sob escaped dark lips. It was soon muffled by the duck down pillow as the hand which had grasped the fabric ruthlessly pressed it against Hakyeon’s mouth. Muffled sobs accompanied the sound of cheerful birds, the contrast too stark and painful for the man to bear.

It was his morning routine: Waking up to a new day, his first thought always being how sweet the fresh wind smelled before his memories caught up with him and Hakyeon’s thoughts once again flooded with the mention of a single name. Then, his toes would curl, finding the bed empty safe for his own pathetic form. His feet which would have touched the glowing hot skin of his lover a year ago now found nothing but cold. All the duvets in the world could not banish the chill from Hakyeon’s bones upon this repeated revelation, early in the morning.

It usually took Hakyeon approximately eight minutes to gather himself together, before he would tiredly throw the blankets off his shoulders, pushing them down to his midsection. Hakyeon would then turn to face the window, wearily gazing at the gently swaying curtains – blearily noting a stray leaf which had been blown onto the windowsill – before finally getting up. First in sitting position, as he would let his feet slowly touch the wooden floors of his bedroom. A shuddering breath would be the only indication of the rough time waking he’d had. He was able to feel now, something he had not been able to the first months after Miyori’s death. He’d been numb with denial even as he’d led the funeral and watched her casket being lowered into the ground where she would ever remain, in that beautiful sunny dress Hakyeon had once gifted her. And then he’d hit the priest. That hadn’t been Hakyeon’s finest moment.

He still felt it sometimes, that all-consuming rage at having been denied the encompassing, universe-shifting, ever-happy love he was supposed to have eternally when Miyori was so suddenly and unjustly taken from him. Now all that was left was a heart-rending story of lovers long gone, not meant to have spent forever together. And memories. Beautiful yet painful memories Hakyeon was forced to relive on sad mornings. He needed coffee.

Getting up slowly, Hakyeon cracked his bones as he stretched before dragging his feet across the dark oak laminate flooring, the soft creaking barely registering. Before coffee, Hakyeon tended to take a scorching hot shower. He never enjoyed them before, but he had come to appreciate them the past few months. _Miyori liked hot showers_. Now there was an uninvited thought. Shaking his head, fringe falling into dull eyes, Hakyeon made his way to the bathroom where he easily slid his legs out of washed-out boxer briefs before turning on the shower. As he let the warm water ease his aching back muscles, Hakyeon mused whether he was due for a haircut. He’d been negligent with his personal care lately, which was a shock to many who knew the man as someone once ever so meticulous with his outward appearance. Cremes, gels, lip balms and perhaps the faintest application of foundation – Hakyeon was a man who liked to be seen at his best. Nails properly clipped, and hands soft to the touch. Now, the man could not remember the last time his hands were callous-free.

Steam escaped the tiny bathroom when Hakyeon finally emerged with a towel wrapped around his hips. A pile of dirty laundry was all that could be seen before Hakyeon slammed the door shut and made his way back into his bedroom. Clothes used to be fashion items. Nowadays, they were merely functional to Cha Hakyeon, who grabbed the first pair of dark slacks he could find and slipped them on, absent-mindedly noting how they settled rather loosely at the hips. He’d lost weight again. Suppressing a sigh, Hakyeon reached for a grey jumper, ignoring the band’s name slathered all across its front (Nirvana), and pulled it roughly over his head. A lightly trembling hand ran through freshly washed locks, tousling them a little.

He remembered begging. Hakyeon had visited Miyori’s grave daily after the funeral. He would bring fresh flowers every day, carelessly casting the previous day’s flowers aside even though they were still beautiful. They were no longer good enough if they’d been lying on decaying dirt for 24 hours. Miyori deserved only the best, even after death. For some illogical reason, Hakyeon had not considered her passed and gone for a while. She was still there, a haunting presence in both mind as the physical world and Hakyeon swore – to this day – that in those moments, he could hear her voice, plump lips teasing the shall of his ear as she asked for _more flowers_. Hakyeon had begged whatever deity for another opportunity. For a chance to bring flowers to Miyori, properly. The fragrant ones in that one popular flower show around the corner, which Miyori had often passed and subtly reminded Hakyeon of how she desired to receive flowers from him one day. Hakyeon had laughed, agreed but always postponed his promise. He could not have known that the first day he’d bring her flowers would be the day she was no longer alive to accept them.

So, he begged and prayed. _Bring her back_ , he demanded in a desperate tone of voice. He’d do better. Hakyeon would pay more attention. But no god answered and no angel brought him to paradise.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Hakyeon scraped his throat as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his Burberry coat and moved through the old corridor towards the stairs. On his back was a small rucksack he’d packed with essentials for the day. Hakyeon barely felt its weight as he slowly made his way down the stairs and into the fresh air of morn.

The clock ticked 8:13 when a doorbell softly chimed and Hakyeon entered a café he knew as well as the inside of his own apartment. Jaehwan, the barista who was working behind the counter and taking orders, lifted his head at the sound and greeted his regular customer with a bright smile. Unfortunately, the radiance of it failed to ignite a spark of warmth within Hakyeon’s grief-stricken heart. Moving forward, Hakyeon nodded at the other man as he finished with a previous order before glancing at the photographer expectantly. “One coffee. Strong, please.” His voice sounded lifeless – monotonous – and something akin to pity flashed in the barista’s kind brown eyes before the man’s chipper voice cut through the sadness like a well-sharpened knife. “Coming right up~ At the usual table, Hakyeon-ssi?” The barista asked as he punched in numbers into the computer before grabbing the nearest clean mug. Hakyeon merely hummed.

As a freelance photographer, Hakyeon accepted a variety of projects. When one did not appeal to his creativity, he would refuse but Hakyeon generally accepted the offers he received. He enjoyed the variety in his work, always eager to take on the next challenge with more vigour than the last. After the tragedy, Hakyeon rarely got up in the morning, wasting the days away and offers had remained unanswered, or – if Hakyeon managed to open his laptop to check his emails – rejected. Slowly but surely, the number of offers and projects decreased until Hakyeon struggled to survive, the rent months overdue. Recently, the photographer managed to keep himself afloat, taking on enough projects to cover the rent and living expenses as well as keep his reputation as a photographer – or whatever remained of it.

Today was no different. Hakyeon shrugged off his coat, draping it carelessly over the back of his chair before plopping down at his usual spot, ignoring the feel of cool wood seeping into his buttocks. His rucksack on his lap, Hakyeon pulled the zipper before rummaging inside and taking out his old Macbook. In the next few minutes, the photographer pulled up the unedited photos from a recent project, refusing to acknowledge how they made him feel – oh how his heart ached – as he sorted through the wedding shoot. He deleted the photos which were slightly blurry or where the subjects in them had posed awkwardly or, in some cases, wore crooked facial expressions. The bride in particular had been rather fussy about how her hair would look, if her skin appeared chapped under the layers of make-up and had been worried about the lighting. Eventually, as the shoot had progressed, she had seemed more at ease and her happiness made her appear more beautiful. 

“One strong coffee for you, Sir.” Jaehwan’s voice cut through Hakyeon’s concentration. The man briefly glanced at the barista, nodding again and managing a small smile this time – which Jaehwan returned – before he watched the male walk back. Nimble fingers gentle wrapped around the steaming cup before bringing it to darkened lips. Hakyeon sipped, wincing ever so slightly at the temperature – he never learns, so impatient – before setting the cup back to be forgotten as Hakyeon’s attention shifted back to the screen.

Endless pearly whites and the brightest eye smile Hakyeon had seen lately greeted his sight. A man – the groom – held proudly onto his young wife, his happiness radiating off his entire form as he stood tall, with a straight back and smile so wide it almost split his face in two. That could have been him, Hakyeon mused as he stared at the man in bowtie, dyed blonde hair falling into his eyes. The photographer stared as he clicked through photos of the happy yet clumsy man who shifted minutely in his poses but never once lost that merry glow. As Hakyeon clicked to the last photo, his breath seemed to catch in his throat, a burning sensation ran down to his lungs where air seemed to have disappeared and the organs contracted in a desperate attempt to suck in the much-needed air but Hakyeon couldn’t breathe. He remembered the pose but had simply clicked away robotically before announcing that he had enough material to work with. But now, sitting behind the screen, Hakyeon realised the alluring moment he caught on film.

It was too much. The love in the bride and groom’s eyes as they stared at one another, with matching brilliant smiles lighting up their faces. That could have been them. Hakyeon could have been the one gazing upon his loved one like that. But that chance had been taken from him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched the young man’s bright smile. He looked so happy – an emotion Hakyeon had become entirely unfamiliar with. The photographer broke down. His hands shook, his breath became laboured and his vision narrowed down to the pair of squinting eyes on the tall, handsome groom’s face. A barely restrained sob escaped his throat and Hakyeon’s grief turned to rage. His trembling hands balled into fists. Tears ran down his heated cheeks. Rage seemed to course rapidly through his veins at the unfairness of it all – why couldn’t he have what they had? Why was his fate forsaken? Why were his prayers and thoughts not answered? A fist raised with the intention of slamming down on the table top. A shadow to his right intervened right when another person’s hand slammed down on the laptop screen, effectively shutting down the device. Like snow before the sun, Hakyeon’s rage vanished as he blinked slowly at the logo on the back of the computer.

“Have some strawberry cheesecake, hyung.” A controlled yet soothing voice spoke. The photographer tilted back his head, unaware of his own raised fist still in the air between him and the barista, who gazed calmly upon him. “It’s on the house” Jaehwan said next, his voice lowered to a whisper – as was unusual for the boisterous blonde. Hakyeon swallowed thickly as a sense of shame washed over him. He nodded curtly at Jaehwan, internally wincing at his behaviour, before unfurling his fingers and gently taking the plate with cake from the barista. One glance into the café from the corner where he sat told Hakyeon that his emotional outburst had not escaped notice. Some fellow customers sat turned to peek at him, all with faces portraying varying levels of disapproval. Hakyeon ducked his head. “Thank you.. My apologies.”

He wasn’t himself, that much was clear. Cha Hakyeon had not been his usual self for months. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever go back to the bubbly persona for which he had been known. Every day was a struggle to keep himself together. Sometimes it was difficult getting out of bed. Other times he was dreaming when he was awake – telling himself that she would be back. It was only a matter of time. Yet time had stretched on for far too long and the depression that had settled instead of her presence was thick and dark, haunting the corners of Hakyeon’s mind and influencing his day-to-day behaviour. As the photographer poked absent-mindedly at his cake, taking minimal bites from a cake that tasted heavenly but turned to dust on his tongue, the barista returned.

“Write to her.” Jaehwan said, his voice once again a considerate volume. Hakyeon’s hand stilled for a moment before he carefully laid down the fork on the tiny porcelain plate (decorated with pink flowers, entirely British in its imitation) and once again faced the barista (or his friend, because couldn’t he consider Lee Jaehwan a friend by now?). Said man held two lined papers and a pen, regarding Hakyeon with something akin to impatience lined in his youthful face. “This can’t continue, Hakyeon-ssi. Please.. for your sake.. for the sake of peace in my café, I beg you. Write your thoughts.” Jaehwan put the papers down, pen on top, before turning and leaving. As the man walked back to the counter, he shook his head and ran a hand through golden dyed locks. Hakyeon felt apologetic.

The problem was that Hakyeon had already written a letter. He just couldn’t bring himself to actually send it to only god knows where. What was holding him back? Maybe the letter wasn’t perfect enough. Maybe there were still things left to say. So much time had already been wasted. Perhaps she was no longer close enough for him to reach. Hakyeon wondered if Miyori would still be waiting for him in that spring field, or whether she’d already moved on into paradise. Hakyeon was wasting time. So, Hakyeon went home. The old, ruined letter still sat forlorn in the deep pocket of his coat.

Time passed at a snail’s pace. The café had become a place Hakyeon felt at peace and yet wished to avoid. Jaehwan was at times unbearable, with his positive and outgoing attitude. Furthermore, he had started asking Hakyeon questions to which the older male did not always wished to respond. Jaehwan’s presence, however, was also calming in a way Hakyeon did not understand. The barista had become a constant in the photographer’s life. A beacon of light and comfort in tumultuous times. Right now though, that beacon was being annoyingly present – its light glaring into Hakyeon’s face as the other tried to work in peace. Jaehwan had resorted to sitting with Hakyeon at times when the café was quiet and he’d finished cleaning all the tables. Then, the blonde male would simply stare at Hakyeon or fiddle with napkins as he tried to make small talk.

“So, hyung..” Jaehwan started, tone light and casual. “Have you been out lately? You know.. the weather’s been nice for photos.” Hakyeon, who had been writing in his scheduler while sipping his chai tea latte (with a shot of espresso) postponed his scribbling for a moment in favour of sending Jaehwan a look. The blonde seemed unperturbed, his mouth set into a pleased line at having caught Hakyeon’s attention. It had Hakyeon pondering the question before averting his gaze to peer out of the café window. The weather had been getting substantially better though Hakyeon had barely noticed it. His mornings were still as cold as his evenings.

Hakyeon hummed in acknowledgement of having heard Jaehwan and sat back into his chair, twiddling his pen between forefinger and thumb. “Not really.” Hakyeon answered after a heartbeat.

“But you’ve been working, right?” Jaehwan inquired.

“Yes, some projects.” Hakyeon answered.

“So, you’re taking photos again then.” Jaehwan said matter-of-factly.

This warranted him a searching stare from Hakyeon, who fought finding the words to respond. Taking photos and _really photographing_ were two different things to Hakyeon. He took photos for projects in order to make money to live but those photos always seemed mediocre to the man, whose passion for photography demanded something more from him. It wasn’t just about skill – it was about feeling that passion, going out and explore. To photograph meant to be one with that which you want to capture eternally on film. That kind of feeling was something Hakyeon did not feel when working on projects lately. His passion had gone; the sense of beauty had fled.

“I can’t.” Hakyeon finally responded, which was met with a confused look on Jaehwan’s part. Hakyeon lowered his gaze and dropped the pen in favour of wrapping both hands around his steaming cup of latte. “There’s nothing left for me to photograph. The beauty I once saw, the vision I had – it’s all gone. The colours, the impressions.. I lost it all.” Hakyeon cleared his throat, lifting the cup to his trembling lips and took a sip. When he set the cup back down, he explained. “The projects I’m doing now are simple. My clients tell me what they want and I shoot the pictures. It’s monotonous work but it brings food on the table and it’s all I can do now. I’m sorry – I won’t go out to photograph the sunny scenery.”

“Then, at least go out to post that letter.” Jaehwan spoke without pause and Hakyeon did the only thing he could do at that moment. He ignored the barista (and his friend) and went back to writing.

However, Hakyeon did end up rewriting his letter to Miyori. Jaehwan’s words had remained stuck in the back of his mind for days until one morning, the grieving photographer found himself waking up with a purpose. Back on bus 239, Cha Hakyeon once again challenged himself in his quest to finding that old red mailbox. The newly written letter was tucked safely inside his pocket, slightly crumbled but clean and dry. Hakyeon was determined to deliver it this time.

Next to Hakyeon, the seat was comfortably empty. In fact, the bus seemed rather vacant for this time of day, a little after 10am. In front sat an elderly lady, who had entered the bus two stops after Hakyeon had. She chattered– accent thick and syllables slurred – to the bus driver, who looked mildly uncomfortable from what Hakyeon could make of the man’s expression in the rear-view mirror. The sight of him had the corners of Hakyeon’s mouth lift just a little in amusement. The near-constipated look on the tanned man’s face was funny and in spite of how melancholy Hakyeon felt these days, he appreciated the tiny spark of delight that settled in his guts. Soon, the bus reached less crowded areas of the city and more greens decorated the scenery from the bus window. Minutes stretched into an hour and then some, and Hakyeon felt his eyelids droop until the last speck of grey stone seemed a mere afterthought.

“Sir? Please, Sir, this is the last stop.” A hand roughly shook Hakyeon’s left shoulder, startling him from a surprisingly dreamless sleep. Blinking, the photographer’s vision was blurry at first. Fuzzy hints of blue and grey danced across Hakyeon’s vision until he turned his head towards the sound and his gaze focused on the concerned, lightly tanned face of the young bus driver. Red swirled into his peripheral vision and Hakyeon vaguely wondered how the driver had gotten the job, with his hair dyed that outrageous colour. The 27-year-old scraped his throat before mumbling an apology, noting the raspy quality of his voice. He sat up straighter and gently shook his head before lightly patting his cheeks with his hands as if to chase away the drowsiness.

“Good day, Sir, are you getting off or will you stay seated? I will have to charge you again, Sir.”

The bus driver’s voice was a low baritone one, the words slightly slurred and reminding Hakyeon of the elderly lady at the front. One glance past the red-haired bus driver told Hakyeon that she had long since gotten off the bus while he had been asleep. Turning his attention back to the driver, who he noted was looking at him with a hint of suspicion in those kind brown eyes, Hakyeon simply nods in reply – but to which part of the question, he didn’t know. “I apologise, Sir.” Hakyeon quickly added. “I must have fallen asleep. Thank you for waking me.” The driver simply nodded solemnly before retracting his hand from Hakyeon’s shoulders. It was only then that the photographer realised how warm and comforting the stranger’s hand had been. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him in a soothing manner.

Swallowing thickly, Hakyeon made to stand up and thrust his hands inside his coat pockets. His index finger lightly scraped against a corner of the envelope he had pocketed. Once again, Hakyeon found himself checking out the view from behind the bus windows, taking in the endless greens with a spark of red at the horizon. The old willow tree swayed gently in the wind, the leaves dancing graciously across the breeze. Step by step, Hakyeon moved from the back of the bus to the front where the bus driver had reclaimed his seat behind the wheel and was regarding the passenger expectantly. The doors had opened to Hakyeon’s right, allowing some fresh air to waft into the pleasantly warm bus. The wind caught at Hakyeon’s ankles where his trousers had ridden up a bit to expose tanned ankle bones peeping from atop dark grey socks.

A shiver ran up Hakyeon’s spine. The sight was inviting and yet the young man found himself unable to move. Seconds seemed to pass yet the moment appeared infinitely longer, time stretching out once more into wasted minutes. Truthfully, the protagonist may have stood there for only a short while, not enough for the bus driver to become impatient, and yet enough for Hakyeon to feel the ever-gripping sense of anxiety – of wrongness. He couldn’t do it.

“Take me back, please. I’m sorry for the inconvenience caused.”

Hakyeon bowed to a stuttering bus driver, who claimed that it had been no trouble at all before charging the young man the bus fare back. Hakyeon quickly paid the ₩2.600 owed before making his way back to his old seat. He did not look out the window as the bus turned to drive home.

It had become a vicious cycle Hakyeon could not escape. His second attempt at travelling to the old red mailbox failed, but so did his third attempt when the tail lights of the bus (no red-headed bus driver this time) glared into Hakyeon’s face, turning his complexion yellow as the photographer stared at the back of the retreating bus until he could no longer discern its colours. A fourth time, the brown-haired male woke up shivering underneath his duvet as the wind howled anguished behind the closed bedroom window, and the man decided he would not make another attempt. Hakyeon failed to leave his apartment at all that day, ignoring Jaehwan’s text messages.

Finally, a few days later, Hakyeon counted his fifth try which was subsequently almost two weeks after his first meeting with a certain willow tree. He found himself in front of an old red mailbox, its paint chipping off in various places. As the photographer stood in the middle of the field, he observed the mailbox, noticing how nature had run its course and claimed the box as part of itself. Leaves grew taller in the vicinity of the mailbox. Amidst all that green beauty stood the box proud as it presented a small door, the flag on the side pointed down. Some vines had climbed from the healthy soil, up the box and around it in nature’s embrace. Interestingly, the mailbox bore no resemblance of a number – only a mere clumsily carved wing. It had Hakyeon resist a snort.

Inside his right pocket, Hakyeon fingered the letter. Letting his thumb rub soothingly across the paper envelope, the man felt a growing urge to pull it out and dump it into the rectangular opening specifically meant for depositing mail. Yet, a peculiar sense of anticipation – foretelling – pleaded with him to remain where he was, to stall the moment. The soles of his black sneakers seemed to sink into the earth as Hakyeon stood firm, frozen in time. He did not want to post the letter, and he did not want to leave either. Contradictory feelings buzzed inside the young man’s veins. He couldn’t leave.

So, Hakyeon did the only other thing he thought to do at the time. He sidestepped the mailbox and lowered himself to the ground where he sat down against the base – a thick pole – of the mailbox. As he sat, the grieving man slowly and gently took out the letter from his coat's pocket and held it in both hands. Looking down at his own neat handwriting, Hakyeon contemplated the journey he'd taken to end up where he currently was. Five attempts, heavy emotions bearing down at him, all for the passionate love he'd felt for his now-deceased girlfriend. He used to go travel miles for her, and yet, now that she'd passed, it had become so difficult to simply take a bus and travel one and a half hours to a stupid mailbox. It would surely be raided by delinquents if Hakyeon were to post this letter. Staring almost unseeingly, Hakyeon distractedly noted that the ink had smudged a little on the last syllable of Miyori's name. The mellow man emitted a deep sigh. He'd have to rewrite the envelope. 

Feeling exhaustion grasp his form, Hakyeon tilted his head back and leaned against the red mailbox. Slowly, he closed his eyes and refused to ponder the inexplicable and sudden tiredness that caught him. Instead, the man envisioned his loved one's face as she'd looked in one of their last moments together. Pale pink lips, darkened eye lashes and bouncy locks that only just touched her shoulders - Miyori smiled. Having fallen into dream land, Cha Hakyeon failed to notice an approaching figure, dark yet not ominous as the man walked at a peaceful pace. The feathered necklace danced across his clothed chest and long, and bony fingers had curled around the graying but sturdy shoulder strap of a messenger bag. When the other male arrived at the destined place, he cast a shadow on the sleeping man's prone body, whose chin bobbed as he dreamed. Feeling the sun's warmth seep away from his skin, the still sleeping man stirred.

And as Hakyeon awoke from his slumber, he noticed – right in front of him – the faded tips of black boots.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by one of my favourite Korean films, 'Heavenly' is a story I started a long time ago but stopped writing when life interfered. Finally, I decided to pick up my imaginary quill to finish writing this fantasy story, and I hope my readers will enjoy this spiritual journey towards what will be a long-awaited romance story! ♥
> 
> Feel free to leave comments below and/or subscribe to Heavenly. I also entertain questions and requests on my CuriousCat account.


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